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My blog is weird

You guys see a very different side to me in comparison to what many people in my life see. My closest friends know that I am pretty…erm…odd, but my work colleagues and casual acquaintances see “professional Jane.”

Professional Jane likes pencil skirts and blazers. She eats rye crackers and discusses politics with men in suits. She analyses exam results and collates them in the form of pie charts. She attends meetings with colleagues and has an actual clipboard. Sometimes, she ties her hair up with a pencil. Yes, professional Jane is a straight-laced, no-nonsense nine to fiver.

Then there’s “crazy Jane”. Crazy Jane tries to teach her cat how to curtsy (she *almost* has it). She has an inexplicable fear of foam and waltzes with herself. She likes to not stalk her neighbours with binoculars and pretend she’s a French mime artist. She also loves wrestling and tequila (in that order). Sometimes, she likes to drive slowly beside random joggers she’s never met while playing Eye of the Tiger. She also likes to frequent karaoke bars where she can rap California Love in its entirety.

So yes, I’m weird. But I’m not always weird. I could come on here and be normal but then you guys wouldn’t be (hopefully) laughing at with me.

In case you guys are wondering, crazy Jane mostly lives in a cage while professional Jane is at work. I let her out in the evening, where she likes to dance to Abba and blog. Crazy Jane sure loves to blog. She also loves talking to all her fellow weirdos and sending them virtual cake. She is uncomfortable with referring to herself in the third person so she’s going to stop now and knit some tea cosies even though she doesn’t have a tea pot. Sinister.

I have a very serious confession 

Okay *takes deep, intense breath*

Guys. I don’t really know how to tell you this. I know that this confession could potentially change the course of history. You will all be so mind blown that I’m straight up warning you that you will probably never feel the same about me again. I…I need to tell you guys something. I’m not proud of this but…it needs to be said. 

Okay. Okay. I can do this. *holds your hand*

My name is Jane (I’m not even going to laugh at the fact that my name autocorrected to the word “hand”). 

My name is Jane and….

I have never seen an episode of Game of Thrones. 

THERE, I SAID IT. I’m sorry, okay? It’s just that I like to let series end and then watch them the whole way through. I’ve done it with The Sopranos, The Wire and lots of other shows. Just…don’t judge me. We can still be friends, right? Anyway, I’m pretty sure GoT is basically this:

  

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Why don’t you confess something to me and I’ll feel better? Like, Barry Gibb wasn’t your favourite Beegee or something? (If that’s true, there’s something wrong with you. He is majestic. MAJESTIC.)

 

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This Post is Going to Get Weird

Ugh. *Makes this face:*

  

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Ask me what’s wrong. What’s wrong Jane?

Oh, nothing. 

Ask again. What’s wrong Jane? 

Okay, fine. If you absolutely must know, I was lying awake last night (you know, wondering if my boyfriend’s snoring was comparable to a vibrating mountain goat or a hungry llama. Standard) and I mentally wrote a poem. And it was amazing. I mean, I know it’s easy to say that now, but really, you guys would’ve been all like:

I mean, if you’re post 2007 Britney and you’ve made some questionable life choices…as you were.

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I even was practicing my Nobel prize acceptance speech, where I would’ve been all like “and finally…thank you Mother Nature, for the words.” 

I woke up this morning, and I had forgotten every word. Every. Single. Word. I don’t even know what my poem was about. It could have been Homeric in its epicness (or been about dancing iguanas) but alas…the world will never know. *wipes single tear away from eye* 

Anyway, I’ll get over it. I’m technically on Easter holidays at the moment, which means this:

 

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Jack is working most days, which means I’m just lolling about the house, trying to teach my cat how to do bookkeeping, ’cause I figure that’ll come in handy at some stage. She’ll be like my personal Andy Dufresne.

My health hasn’t been great. I’m not a hypochondriac…which is totally something a hypochondriac would say, d’oh. But I’ve had ongoing problems for over a year now and I’ve decided to abstain from dairy and wheat just to see if it helps. So far, it hasn’t and I’m super-cranky because I can’t have milk chocolate, which is the equivalent of taking hairspray off this guy: 

  

Hint: We both get a little stabby…

 

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I have a lot to look forward to, though. My sister is getting married in June and a week later, one of my best friends is getting married too. I’m her bridesmaid, which is potentially the worst decision she has ever made but hey, let’s go with it. Her hen party is next weekend, and I just ordered the most ridiculous costume to wear. Let’s just say it involves leg warmers and a tutu. I don’t even know how that happened. I’m going to make Lady Gaga’s fashion choices look conservative. 

So that’s basically my life right now. I have some fun things coming up, which I will reveal in due course. 

So…why don’t you tell me what’s been going on with you and I’ll tell you how I used to think line dancing was actually called lion dancing and wouldn’t lion dancing actually be amazing? Okay, bye. 

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Thank You <3 

My last post dealt was difficult to write and I was very reluctant to post it but I’m so glad that I did. I was absolutely overwhelmed by the wonderful, considerate and thought-provoking comments you guys left on the post. It really moved me that you guys took time to leave such kind and caring messages. I mean, this was my face reading the majority of them:

  

I just wanted to say a massive thank you to you all. You have no idea how much you have helped me and I am so lucky to-…

*music starts playing*

No, no don’t cut me off. I’m not done…I’M NOT DONE. 

*fights security guards*

Okay, I’m done. But thank you. Sincerely and from the bottom of my heart, thank you. 

  

  

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The Most Difficult Post to Write

Hello everyone. The following post has been sitting in my drafts since Christmas Day. I have been very reluctant to post it for a number of reasons: Firstly, I categorise my blog as a humour blog. This post is not going to be funny or light-hearted and I suppose I didn’t want my readers resenting or becoming confused by a sudden change in tone. I also don’t want any of you to think of me differently after reading this, and part of my has felt like that will be inevitable. Secondly, I saw a conversation on Facebook recently where somebody was complaining about the amount of people who blog about depression and anxiety. Their argument was that it has almost become trendy to claim that you are suffering from some kind of mental illness and while I don’t agree with what they were saying, I would hate to think anyone thinks I’m posting this to jump on some kind of bandwagon. I think it’s essential to talk about depression and to attempt to break the stigma surrounding mental health issues. Today, I just want to tell my story.

This is not going to be an easy post to write. Usually, I think of an idea for a blog and I draft it up pretty enthusiastically. If you are a regular reader of my blog, you will know that my posts tend to be quite silly and immature, because I have never been fully comfortable with embracing adulthood completely. We often write posts with a specific goal in mind; this goal is often to elicit maximum engagement from readers, or hoping that it will reach as wide an audience is possible. In short, we want our posts, and by extension our blogs, to be popular. This post is different. Personal posts are ten a penny on the Internet and I will admit this upfront: this post isn’t going to be brimming with philosophical or enlightening thought; there will be no moments of catharsis or life-changing epiphanies. I am sharing my experiences with depression because maybe there is one person out there who reads this and thinks “that sounds just like me.” Maybe one person will feel even a fraction less lonely and isolated after reading this. Maybe, just maybe, one person reading this will see that even those of us who others would refer to as funny or good-humoured experience dark and lonely times. And that it’s okay to feel like this. So let me begin.

I am lonely and I am sad. I’m not lonely all the time, but loneliness is a feeling I experience far more often than I would like. The most frustrating aspect of it is that I can’t quite pinpoint why I feel like this. I have the most supportive and kind boyfriend. He makes me laugh in a way no body else can. I have wonderful friends, even though the majority of them live far away. Sometimes I feel like I could have more friends, but I’ve never been one for maintaining several relationships at once. I prefer to keep a small, close knit group of friends. I’ve had the same friends for the majority of my life. I do make friends easily, but I’ve moved jobs quite often, and have moved away from where I attended school and college, so contact has naturally ceased with many people I had been close with. Over the years, I have found that I have been subconsciously isolating myself from many people in my life; it definitely has not been deliberate, but I do like to spend time alone. As the years have passed by, I think I’ve gotten used to living quite a solitary life. I spend the majority of my day with Jack, but I live far away from my family and childhood friends, so I do often find myself keeping myself company. I have great work colleagues, who frequently ask me to come for after work drinks. Years ago, I would have attended any social gathering without hesitation, but nowadays, I choose to stay at home more often. The thing is, I don’t think that this is the source of my loneliness. I have always been comfortable in my own company. What makes me feel really lonely is the fact that I feel like nobody really gets me. Doesn’t that sound woefully arrogant; as if everyone out there should care enough about me to attempt some kind of in depth study of my character. I don’t expect anyone in my life to spend copious amounts of time considering the complexity of my emotional state. I also do not want to sound like some teenage EMO, clutching a copy of The Catcher in the Rye and lamenting the fact that “no one understands me”. Of course no one really knows me, when I spend so much of my time making jokes and not taking life seriously. In school, I was the class clown. I’m the joker in my family. My friends know me as the funny one, always ready to crack a joke or laugh outrageously at the silliest things. This blog is a reflection of that side of my personality. Some would consider it my entire personality. And don’t get me wrong, I love it. I’m not going to pretend I don’t think I’m somewhat funny. This isn’t a time for false modesty. It’s a great trait to possess and I have embraced it wholeheartedly. The thing is, it has led people to erroneously assume that I’m immune to sadness or misery. I think people in my life think that because I smile a lot, or because my laugh is ridiculously jolly, I simply must be fulfilled and continually happy and gregarious. Do I blame people for making this assumption? Of course not. It’s nobody’s fault, but it’s frustrating when I’m in a bad mood and someone pipes up with “but you never get moody, Jane”. Of course I bloody do. I’m human. And it goes far beyond being moody. I sometimes fear that if people say the tears and the sobs that wrack my body and the days I spend lying in bed refusing to get up, I would have no friends left.

So is that just it? Do I just feel a little isolated by my sense of disconnection from my friends and family? I know it goes far beyond that.

As a child, I suffered incredible mood swings. When I was happy, I was positively jubilant. But when I was angry, or sad, I was hysterical. As is the story of my life, I did not make this known to anyone in my life. My parents would never have put up with it, as they loathed any kind of emotional outburst and would have branded anything resembling one as attention-seeking. I would lie in my room or sit on the edge of our bath tub, overcome with sadness and dejection. I felt at odds with the world around me; like I was crazy and no one else seemed to care.

As a teenager, my mood swings worsened. On the surface, I appeared carefree and happy. Most of the time, I was okay. I had lots of friends, I performed well in school and I had a lot of fun at weekends with my fun-loving companions. I drank too much alcohol, I stayed out too late and I wore really awful clothes. All in all, I was like a lot of other teenagers: full of angst and uncertainty about my surroundings. But there was something else. I felt a profound sense of loneliness and isolation, even when I was surrounded by dozens of people. I didn’t want to be out partying and drinking. I didn’t want to be talking to boys or dancing. I wanted to be alone. I felt this inexplicable sense of impending doom; I was always on edge, even when I appeared to be having fun. At home, I spent a lot of time purposefully detaching myself from my family. I was quite an introspective teenager and I could have happily spent hours lying on my back, overly-analysing issues that I perceived as major problems. 

It was in college that the problem started to get out of control. I skipped lectures, avoided social contact and spent days lying in bed with the curtains closed. I cried easily and I was extremely sensitive. I felt that my friends were ignoring me and that my boyfriend wasn’t as committed to our relationship as I was. I fought with my friends and my family. During one shouting match with my sister, she called me “unstable.” It hurt. It hurt because I knew that it was true. I had become completely unbalanced. You might assume that was the turning point; that I suddenly revealed all of the dark and anxiety-filled thoughts that I’d been having. But I didn’t. Even though my mother was a psychiatric nurse, I knew she wouldn’t react in the way I would have wanted. She was amazing at dealing with the problems of strangers. She viewed all her patients as exactly that: patients. She was a fantastic nurse but her job frustrated her. She didn’t want to see the problems that she encountered at work reveal themselves at home. My family have never been the most affectionate or open with each other, and my parents were only a few years away from their marriage breaking up. Our household was continuously tense and only added to my feelings of isolation and anxiety.

In 2009, I was diagnosed with epilepsy after suffering a major seizure and I was hospitalised. When I recovered, I was sent to a consultant neurologist. I brought my mother with me for support. I had a long conversation with him about my lifestyle and my medical history, and he discussed anti-seizure medication with me. I will never forget him looking up from his notepad and fixing me with a look of sympathy and understanding. His voice became softer, as he said “and this medication is also used to treat depression. So you’ll find that you’ll feel a little less…anxious.” I was flabbergasted. I hadn’t said anything to him about what I considered my carefully concealed secret. My mother stared at him, then at me. She shook her head. She didn’t want to hear this. He was still looking at me, and he seemed to be mentally saying to me it’s okay. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. He then continued “around a third of people with epilepsy experience depression. It’s very common. And-“

“Can she not drive, so?” My mother interrupted him, and we didn’t speak any more about depression. I don’t want anyone thinking that my mother is neglectful or selfish; it’s worth pointing out that her sister had just been diagnosed with cancer and her marriage was falling apart. 

After that, the situation continued to get worse. I began studying for a Master’s Degree and Jack and I moved into a beautiful apartment. I knew that I should have been happy, but I wasn’t. The pressure to appreciate what I had just served to make things worse. I pushed myself to appear okay; I painted a near constant smile on my face and continued partying and drinking to try and block out the emotional pain. There were a number of days where I sat alone in my bathroom, feeling that life would never be different and I would never be normal. I wondered what the point in carrying on would be. I was exhausted from pretending and from lying. I was not okay, and I felt like I never would be. That’s when I started to think about suicide. I realised that I didn’t have to feel this constant sense of dread. I didn’t have to lie awake every night, worrying about how abnormal I was compared to all my friends. I could just fade into blackness and everything would be gone. 

Although I want to be honest with you all, I don’t want to describe in too much detail what I attempted to do. Truth be told, I was never going to do it. I knew that deep down. While I did hurt myself, I didn’t cause any real harm and I just sat in my bathroom, cursing at myself for being so pathetic. I was a mess and I knew I needed help. 

The epilepsy medication did help somewhat. It stabilised my mood swings and the feelings of self-loathing and doom were never as extreme as they were before I’d been on the medication. I found out that a close family friend, who had been suffering with severe depression for most of her adult life, was on the same medication. Although mine was primarily used to treat my epilepsy, I began to fear what would happen if I stopped having seizures and would have to come off it. I knew that treating the problem went beyond medication. I needed to change my lifestyle and my attitude. I needed to talk to people and open up about my problems. 

Eventually, I did come off the epilepsy medication. I made the decision very carefully but I know that it was the right one. While I still have mild, infrequent seizures, they are never very debilitating. It was the feelings of dread and anxiety that I was afraid of. I still hadn’t properly or formally discussed my feelings with anyone, in the medical profession or otherwise. I didn’t want a formal diagnosis, because I dreaded a label. I had had health issues for a number of years, and I was tired of feeling like a victim. I know that sounds almost callous of me, but I just wanted to move on with my life. I was also afraid that my meantal health struggles would go on record and that I would find it difficult to secure a job. I tried to just ignore the feelings and convince myself that if I just didn’t live like I was depressed, then it would just disappear. Unfortunately, depression doesn’t release its grip when you want it to and pretending there wasn’t a problem only made it worse.

Since I moved around a bit, different GPs did notice that I seemed anxious and frequently recommended anti-anxiety medication, which I always turned down. I’m not anti-medication at all, but I had spent years on different medications and I had gotten a little fed up. I knew that tablets would help me, but I also knew that I could help myself without them. 

So I started to open up. I had long talks with my sister and my mother. My boyfriend was a huge help. I cut back on alcohol. I stopped staying in bed all day on weekends. I started to freely admit my struggles and my fears. I visited doctors and I discussed my feelings.

Did the depression go away?

Well, no.

And it never will. And that’s okay. I will never be completely free of these feelings of fear and dread but I can learn how to live with them. Somedays are good days. I get up out of bed and I go about my business and I feel fine. I can have a laugh with my friends and I can have fun. Conversely, some days are bad days. These days seem to be during periods where I don’t have much going on in my life; like school holidays. It is usually during the summer that I struggle most because I don’t have work as a distraction and I feel pressure to have a good time and enjoy myself. When I have bad days, I feel inexplicably exhausted. I’m hyper-sensitive and I cry. I feel anti-social and useless. I don’t like looking in the mirror. It feels like no matter what I do, or no matter what happenes, nothing can cheer me up. It could be sunny, I could have won the lottery and I would still feel anxious and sad. It feels like I’m wearing an invisible and heavy cloak around my neck, that only I notice and I have to drag it everywhere with me. I can’t take it off, I have to live with it. I guess there are just days where I notice it more.

But most importantly, I have hope. I know now that these dark days are inevitable, but they will pass. The darkness gives way to light and I have good days again. Hope has been the only thing that has helped me to get through all of this. I have a tattoo on my wrist (a place I need this tattoo) that simply states, in Latin, While I Breathe, I Hope. This is an important life motto for me. Every second I am alive, I have hope. Coincidentally, it also happens to be the motto on my family crest. 

I have come to embrace my struggles. I know what’s good for me and what isn’t. I try to keep a close circle of good friends that I can trust. I stay in touch with my family. I maintain a strong relationship with my partner. I spend time with my pets. And I blog. You guys have no idea how helpful this blog has been and how happy and appreciative your support and love had made me. I hope that you all realise that the humour and immaturity isn’t a front; it’s a part of who I am. But so is my depression. I will continue to be weird and awkward and all the things you guys expect, but I think it’s important to discuss this side of me too. It’s a side I used to conceal, but I don’t want to anymore. I’m not ashamed. 

Lastly, I want to thank anyone who read this far. I hope that this piece hasn’t come across too self-pitying or self-indulgent. I just wanted to be honest and open with you all and if I could reach anyone, then that’s a bonus. If you do find yourself struggling with feelings of depression or anxiety, it’s important that you don’t just close up and ignore these feelings. Confront them. Share them. Or, like me, embrace them. I spent so much time vainly attempting to appear happy and well-adjusted that it just became exhausting. When I finally realised that I could stop, that I could just become okay with not being okay, I felt relieved. In many ways, my struggles have helped me to become a more compassionate and empathetic person. I choose to see the good in my situation instead of the bad. I truly hope that this post has been even a little helpful to someone out there. Finally, here are some words to live by if you are struggling:

I will live with this.

I CAN live with this.

This post was inspired by a number of fantastic bloggers who encouraged me to find the courage to post this. I don’t want to link to anyone else because I feel that their stories are very personal and they may not want me to but I have to say thank you. This has really helped.

The Creative Blogger Award with added rule-breaking

Hi there! How’s it going? Good? Good. Rob from The V-pub has nominated me for the Creative Blogger Award, which is nice (that’s a Fast Show ref-oh never mind). Rob is honestly one of the nicest bloggers around; he’s a loyal reader of my blog, as well as being a funny, caring and all round good guy. His blog also shows that he has a variety of interests and talents and it’s a fun place to be. Check him out at the link above please! 

  

So what are the rules? THERE ARE NO RULES! Lol, of course there are rules. There are always rules. Here they are:

  • Nominate 15-20 blogs and notify all nominees via their social media/blogs
  • Thank and post the link of the blog that nominated you
  • Share five facts about yourself to your readers
  • Pass these rules on to them
  • Bake Jane a cake

Okay, I made the last one up. Worth a try.

So here are five facts about me:

1. I am currently a home tutor, because my contract in my previous school was up and I wanted to try something new. Everyday going to work, this clip plays through my mind:

http://youtu.be/qG4NaRkFYmk

2. Something exciting is happening in my personal life but I’m not allowed to tell anyone…yet. I can tell you that I’m not pregnant. Not even a little bit.

  

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3. I’m obsessed with Shakespeare and Hamlet is the best thing written in the English language in my opinion. I also love To Kill a Mockingbird; I wanted Atticus Finch to be my dad. 

Sorry Dad

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4. My favourite sport is rugby. It’s an incredibly exciting game. I also love a sport called hurling. It’s a native Irish sport that has been described by foreigners as “hockey mixed with murder”. Seriously, it’s CRAZY. 

 

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5. I live in a very beautiful place that I will possibly have to leave soon but *pouty face* I DON’T WANNA! 

Just to clarify, I don’t live *in* the castle…

Here are my lovely nominees: 

Musings from a Workaholic 

Jessie Janelle Reyna

Insidethelifeofmoi

The Indecisive Eejit

Apricots and Cream

Tropical Affair

Deep Blues and Sea Foam Greens

Michelle Eastman Books

I Didn’t Have My Glasses On

Not a Punk Rocker

The Verbal Spew Review

Confetti and Curves

But I Smile Anyway

Hello World

 It’s a Britta Bottle

Hugs x Heart

Mother Hen Diaries

All Things Britney Lee

Cats at the Bar

Darshan Gajara’s Weirdo Tech Blog

Behind the White Coat

Char Spillane

Okay, I’ve broken the rules by nomimating too many bloggers, SUE ME! (Don’t really, I’m poor.) As usual, apologies if anyone feels left out (at least Santa loves you) and there is no pressure on anyone to accept the award, you can just bask in your collective awesomeness if you want :) 

Have a great day everyone! 

Cats at the Bar Charity Fundraising Drive

janeybgood:

This is such a worthwhile cause. If you can help out in any way, please do! And if you can help spread the word, that would be great :) Look at the little face :D

Originally posted on Cats at the Bar:

DSC_3184_marked Now that it’s Spring and the onslaught of new kittens is coming, it’s time to help raise money for animal shelters and volunteer programs that do such good work, but never have enough money to keep up.

Between now and Easter I’m trying to raise $1,000
to give to volunteer cat shelters.

With your help, be it a dollar or ten, every little bit counts, we can make a difference and give cats a home, a place to stay or even just a meal.

Show your support along with Cats at the Bar! Tell the world you know every cat is special! Share this post and click the sign to help. Thank you my friends.  

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Sharing The Bed

janeybgood:

A little piece I wrote for the wonderful Cats at the Bar. I love these guys :)

Originally posted on Cats at the Bar:

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Soot: “Sammy, get your paw off my face.”
Sammy: “What? This is the way I sleep now.”

Guest author, Janey of Cupid or Cats
Hey! Cupid or Cats is a finalist in the Weblog Awards or “Bloggies” in the “Most Humour Weblog” category. Voting closes on Sunday so it would be amazing if you could follow the link below and vote for her, it’s easy, I promise.
http://2015.bloggi.es

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Why I Stopped Drinking*

Ah, alcohol. We’ve had quite a tempestuous relationship. Sure, we’ve had some fun. Without your influence, I probably wouldn’t have mastered the ancient Japanese art of dance-karate or had the courage to perform a rap battle with a Spanish bus driver (hola, Javier). Then again, I also wouldn’t have broken and permanently damaged my ankle running down a mountain, or thrown a stiletto at a policeman because I thought he called me fat (turns out he was gently reminding me to watch the kerb). 

  

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I’m not proud to admit this, but I started drinking alcohol at a young age. I grew up in a tiny village in the countryside, and there was only so much twirling on mountaintops dressed as Austrian milk maidens that we could do before even that got a little tedious.

  

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As angst-ridden teenagers, my friends and I got bored and apathetic pretty easily. We did all the normal teenage things- we played sports, watched TV together, played the PlayStation, and set each other ridiculous dares (sorry if I have ever prank called any of you, but I really did care whether your refrigerator was running or not, honestly).

We were also a little awkward. Teenagers have it tough; there’s societal expectations thrust upon them that seem unattainable, they have hormones flying everywhere and they struggle with seemingly unending self-esteem issues. For my friends and I, most of these problems seemed to disappear when we had alcohol. We were suddenly more confident, more sociable and more uninhibited. Looking back, we were really, really stupid. We just didn’t realise what a potentially dangerous situation we were creating. We had no idea what the alcoholic content of most drinks was so we ingested vodka and other spirits like I would now drink water. My girlfriends and I freely drank around boys we barely knew and put ourselves into very vulnerable situations. We all had our fair share of personal problems and I suppose we drank to excess to forget these, but mostly, we drank because it was fun.

Of course, I’m not condoning teenage drinking. That’s irresponsible and I have a teenage dog, so I’m all about responsibility. There are a whole load of things that can go wrong for an intoxicated teenager, and things did go wrong for us. Sometimes someone got hurt, or did something stupid, but it didn’t stop us. I regret what I now see as the premature loss of my innocence; I wish I had been closer to my family and had followed the influence of my still teetotal older brother.

 

My family portrait…

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Things only got more wild in college. And although I was a little indulgent with the liquor at times, I don’t regret it all that much because I was a little older and wiser. I had the time of my life, I made amazing friends and I once arrived home in a trolley dressed as a mermaid. And everyone loves trollies, see?

 

Look at his faaaace

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But I knew it had to stop at some stage. I was diagnosed with epilepsy in 2009 and my brain just couldn’t keep up with the pina coladas anymore (and let’s face it, my brain is weird enough already). Since I left college, I probably drank alcohol about twice a year. The problem is, when I did drink, I went crazy. I have the most hilarious, fun-loving group of friends and when we get together, things happen. Scary things.

  

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The last few times I have been out, there has been yodelling and a conversation with a parrot who was definitely telling me to get my life together.

 

His name was George, by the way…

The last time I had alcohol was about two months ago. I was out with my darling friends and we had an amazing time, in a lot of ways. But I didn’t enjoy being drunk. In fact, I haven’t enjoyed it in a long time. I felt tired and depressed. It wasn’t really giving me that ‘buzz’ anymore. I tried having a couple of Redbulls, but that just made me wake up at five a.m. convinced that I was having a heart attack. I then cleaned the entire hotel room and jogged on the spot for twenty minutes.  

 

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The next morning, I felt hungover and depressed. I had a three hundred kilometre drive ahead of me and I had a lot of time to think (and use my hand as a microphone as I sang along to the radio). I realised that I just didn’t want to drink anymore. It’s dangerous for me because of my epilepsy, and I don’t particularly enjoy it anymore. I’m also a fun-loving girl, who loves to laugh and abstinence from alcohol won’t change that. Erm, hopefully.  

 

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Really though, I’m going to be a healthier and happier person who can still go out and have fun, minus the thumping hangover. I know some of you might suggest moderation but that word doesn’t exist in the Irish lexicon. I’m only kidding; the only reason I’m saying that I can do completely without alcohol is because I actually don’t particularly like the taste of it all that much. I’ve never drank it for its taste, it was always just for its effect. I’d much prefer a cola or a lemonade…aaaand, I’ve just become Grandma. 

I don’t want anyone to think I’m judging people who drink. Hey, up until a few months ago, they were considering renaming Jacob’s Creek to Jane’s Creek, which sounds vaguely sexual. Many people drink only small amounts and have a very healthy relationship with alcohol, and that’s wonderful. It’s not like I had become completely dependent on alcohol, but I didn’t like how I was associating it with being the necessary ingredient for a good time. Now, I’m just happy to spend time with my friends and family, and if Mam wants to bake me a cake, who am I to complain? 

So, it’s farewell for now alcohol. I’m sure we’ll meet again in the not-too-distant-future, when I get the urge to sing karaoke or watch The Bridges of Madison County. But right now, I’m content to be the boring friend who tells everyone in the pub about the history of linen.  

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Hey! Remember that Cupid or Cats is a finalist in the Weblog Awards or “Bloggies” in the “Most Humour Weblog” category (go on, do the finger quotes, you know you want to). Voting closes on Sunday so it would be amazing if you could follow the link below and vote for me, it’s easy, I promise :) To those of you who have already voted, thank you so much. It means a lot. And if you vote now, let me know so I can heap praise on you and worship you as a demigod. 

You can vote here:

http://2015.bloggi.es

*alcohol, obviously. Otherwise I’d be dead.

Lá Fhéile Phádraig Shona Daoibh Arís!

Hi gach duine! Lá fhéile Phádraig shona daoibh! Más rud é nach féidir leat a thuiscint , a úsáid Google Translate mo chara :) Ní féidir sé ag obair i gceart , ach beidh tú a fháil ar an gist, tá súil agam! 

Caithfidh mé a rá, le dhá bhliain anuas, bhí sé iontach chun ceangal le daoine ó gach cearn den domhan. Mheas mé mé féin an t-ádh a bheith ag baint le blagairí álainn den sórt sin agus ba mhaith liom buíochas a ghabháil libh go léir as bhur dtacaíocht leanúnach. 

Go raibh míle maith agaibh! Anois, tá mé a fháil ar ais go dtí snámha i uisce beatha, er….ciallóidh mé, rud ar bith. Ahem. 

Slán!